First Impressions
by EnglandBabe1997
Summary: The first three times Gregory Lestrade met Sherlock Holmes. Sherlock is annoying, sharp witted and high as a kite. Lestrade just wants his lunch back at the Yard.
1. Sherlock

Gregory Lestrade had first met Sherlock a long time ago, not long before he became a Detective Inspector, and a long time before Sherlock was clean, let alone presentable to the rest of society. Anderson was working somewhere in Manchester and Donovan hadn't even finished her training.

At first he hadn't particularly liked the younger man (or even at all), never mind wanted to let him on his crime scenes. The drugs had made the boy's (he looked barely older than nineteen or twenty) tongue sharper than usual, not that he'd known that at the time. All he'd seen was a particularly rude stalker who knew far too much of his private life.

The day they'd met hadn't been particularly complicated – or so he'd thought at first. The weather had been difficult, fluctuating between pleasant and awful; which really should've been an indicator as to the kind of day that was to follow.

The case had been fairly simple as well. A shoe fetish, a murder and they'd arrested the main suspect and were hoping to be back at the Yard in time for lunch.

As they were packing up and leaving, Lestrade had spotted a teenager with glazed but intense eyes and a short sleeved black t-shirt that explained everything. The boy's hair was matted and wild, despite the current outburst of rain, and he was paler than anyone Greg had ever seen.

When the boy had first spoken his voice had been sharp but eloquent, in spite of his grubby appearance and combined with what he was saying Greg had been convinced someone else was speaking. "You've got the wrong person you know."

No, the boy was the only other person around – the others had headed back to the Yard and the forensics team was sniffing around the crime scene. "What?"

The boy seemed amused. "You've arrested the wrong man."

Greg humoured him. "Have we?"

A slight smirk appeared – one he would learn to loathe – and a sliver of intelligence, brilliance, sparked through the clouded eyes. "You'll see. Soon."

"And why do you think that?"

"Why do I think you've got the wrong man or why do I know you'll find that out soon? You should be more careful with your questions Sergeant Lestrade."

Lestrade started. "How do you know my name?"

The boy ignored the question. "Take a look at the victim's passport and then back at his phone." And then, without looking back, the boy turned on the spot and disappeared into the shadows. Lestrade stared incredulously after him before sighing. It _had_ seemed too good to be true and it couldn't hurt to double check.

He just wouldn't be telling his superior's he was taking policing advice from random junkies off the street. Or he'd never get that promotion.

oOo

The second time Lestrade met Sherlock; it was during a drug's bust. It wasn't a first for either of them but it was the first of many involving the two. This one, however, definitely involved actual drugs.

(As Lestrade later told Sherlock, it was quite good they'd turned up when they had. Sherlock, not that he'd know the boy's name yet, had merely scowled and said 'he' wouldn't allow him to die. Lestrade hadn't known at the time who this 'he' Sherlock was talking about was. Now, Greg could make a fairly reliable guess.)

When Sherlock was released from the hospital Greg couldn't decide whether he was glad to see him go or if he was going to miss the kid. But he knew the hospital staff wasn't going to miss him. Sherlock had been trying to leave for the last week and a half. An hour after his first escape attempt a small army of men in black suits descended upon the hospital and promptly deposited him back on his bed whenever he left it.

oOo

The third time they'd met hadn't even been his choice – or Sherlock's as he'd later heard. The current case was becoming increasingly complicated due to an apparent lack of links between victims.

Sherlock turned up at the crime scene and promptly solved the crime, finding a link between the victim's coats and watches, explaining it in that particularly annoying way that made you feel like an idiot for not seeing it before. Lestrade hadn't appreciated the feeling. Usually he was the one making people feel like the idiot. It hadn't happened to him since he'd become Sergeant.

He'd left the crime scene hoping to never see the arrogant man ever again.

He returned to the Yard to find an official order from the higher up's consenting to the use of Sherlock Holmes in solving crimes. Luckily he'd known the boy's name by now or else it would have confused him for a brief moment – who would let a druggie on a crime scene?

(Again, at the time he'd failed to work out how he'd received the order. What kind of police force allowed a drug addict to work with their officers to solve crimes? Now he made an educated guess.)

He agreed as long as Sherlock turned up to his crime scenes clean.

(He didn't admit it but the younger man was starting to grow on him. Sherlock could tell anyway.)


	2. Mycroft

**I've always wondered how Lestrade and Mycroft's first meeting would go and when I found this story looking through my old ones, it was the perfect opportunity to add a second chapter x I would recommend never trying to write Mycroft, which is why I don't go into much detail about their conversation - he's much too difficult to pin-point x **

**Please read and review x This is actually much longer than the last one, which is a testament to how much easier I find it to write something longer without being distracted :)**

It wasn't long after he'd first started using Sherlock on his crime scenes, that he got a call from someone important (he wasn't actually sure who), who told him that he would be having a visitor drop by at some point in the next few weeks to see how his division was functioning. Sherlock wasn't mentioned, but Lestrade had a feeling that he had something to do with it - the young man appeared to have much better connections than you would have first thought.

Lestrade didn't know when this visitor would be coming, and, knowing Sherlock's capability with insulting and affronting people, Lestrade elected to keep the younger man out of the way as much as possible. He didn't know who he would be getting and it was all he didn't need to upset some political hot-shot that could have him fired in less than five minutes.

Yes, Sherlock was definitely being kept away from the crime scenes.

oOo

When the inspector, as Lestrade had named him lacking anything else to describe him, arrived, it was in a sleek black car with what appeared to be a driver. You had to be someone to have a driver in London.

The man who got out was bordering on portly, with an expensive suit and polished shoes, followed by a brown-haired woman who had not yet looked up from her mobile phone, fingers moving rapidly over the keys.

Lestrade told one look and sighed. This was going to be a difficult day, one he wished he could put off.

But when the man took one look at the gruesome scene, eyes blank, and turned away, completely uninterested, Lestrade felt his interest stirred. Not many people reacted like that to murder, never mind one as violent as this.

This was getting odd.

The man started to talk, already knowing odd and small things about him, the kind of things he didn't tell anyone. It was unnerving, and Lestrade got the idea was the point of it, to keep him off-balance until he'd revealed more than he should.

And, right now, he was off-balance.

This well dressed man was spewing sthat thatecrets about his smoking habits and his wife's cooking problems, in a way that was vaguely familiar but he couldn't pin-point.

Very quickly they moved on, discussing the case, Lestrade probably giving out more information to a civilian than he was supposed to. They then moved on to some of his colleges and their work, their dedication, all the usual stuff.

And then on to Sherlock.

Lestrade didn't know what to say.

The questions were well phrased, but somehow direct, and all of them were aimed at finding out whether he actually liked Sherlock Holmes, rather than his capabilities. It was rather odd.

Lestrade didn't know what to say to that either. _Did_ he like Sherlock?

He did, he realised, when the dark-haired man wasn't being a complete pain in the neck and when he was clean. He supposed he split his time between liking the younger man and wanting to wring his neck.

His thoughts seem to show on his face, as his questioner assured him that for Sherlock this was normal.

But speak of the devil and the devil shall appear, in a taxi and wearing a new coat. Lestrade actually quite liked it. It suited him well.

His stumbled straight past them, but froze halfway to the body, spinning around stiffly.

"Mycroft."

"Sherlock."

So they did know each other then. The tension was something that Lestrade didn't want to get in between, instead choosing to edge away. Straight across from him, the woman had finally looked up from her phone, apparently sensing the danger in the air.

"Why are you here?" Sherlock hissed, looking more angry than Lestrade had ever seen him. He waited for Sherlock to say something cutting before reducing the other man to tears or anger, but was stunned when the pair instead chose to glare at each other.

"Checking up on you. You know how I worry," He said smoothly.

"Worry less. If I find one more security camera in my bathroom..."

The portly man, Mycroft (and wasn't it odd that Lestrade hadn't caught his name before?), gave him a cold stare, looking more frightening that Lestrade could have believed.

"Stop removing them then. You know how I fret, brother."

Brother?

He swung his head between the two, only now noticing the similarities. He supposed he should have noticed earlier, what with the ruthless deductions and cold manner.

Well, this was a crime scene. He wasn't going to deal with a family spat here, especially one of the Holmes'.

Luckily for him, the brunette (who had still not let go of her Blackberry) interceded, telling Mycroft that he was needed elsewhere - a crisis in Peru or something of the sort.

Lestrade didn't want to know how he knew that.

Either way, still glaring at each other, Mycroft Holmes strode back into the car, telling Lestrade it was interesting to have met him.

He didn't think that Holmes' have to word nice in their vocabulary.

Sherlock huffed and then disappeared to pester forensics.

If he ever had to listen to the two of them in the same room again...

He would quit and move to somewhere far enough that he would never see them again. It would have to be very far though. Apparently not even Peru was far enough.


End file.
